And We'll Paint the Town Red
by Penemuel
Summary: "Perhaps we should pay a visit to Volterra and write them a Christmas letter with their heads." Vladimir/Stefan. Friendship or something more, at the reader's discretion.


**Notes**: This was written for a writing contest for a site I'm on. The word limit was 700 (I went a bit over), and it had to incorporate "Christmas" somehow. So maybe I cheated on the Christmas part. Just a little bit.

I've always had a soft spot for the Romanian vampires :c

_Vladimir/Stefan. Can be viewed as friendship or something more at the reader's discretion._

* * *

**And We'll Paint the Town Red**

The good thing about the Christmas season (disgusting though it often seemed), Stefan thought, was that the colour of freshly spilt blood on otherwise white snow went perfectly with the holiday colour scheme. And why mortals had chosen red as their go-to colour he didn't know, but he tended to chalk it up with the plethora of other stupid things they did. Such as run when they should _know _better.

Not that Stefan was really complaining. He loved the thrill of the chase—_reveled _in the way blood _didn't _pump through his dead veins—and wouldn't give it up for the world. The added bonus to this one, he supposed, was that at least the mortal's final moments were marked by some garish festive lights hanging from above, painting the snow with colours of blue, green, and red.

_Oh, so much _red.

"Humans. They get so complacent at this time of year."

Stefan concealed a smirk in the neck of his prey as he heard Vladimir speak, the warm feeling of blood on his cold skin pleasant even after all these years. Besides Vladimir, it was the only constant thing he'd had in his life since taking to the road, running from defeat all those years ago. He was grateful for them both.

"Makes hunting them so much easier. I do not complain," Stefan said, eyes zeroing in on the faint pulse in the human's torn neck, just as his ears latch on to the sound of his prey's dying breath. Had he still a use for breathing, he would have exhaled at the same moment the nameless woman did, just for mockery's sake. But instead he chuckled, and let the warm flush of blood travel down through his body, warming him as little else did these days. When he lifted his head to face Vladimir next, there was blood smeared over his mouth, and he could tell from the twist in Vladimir's mouth that the sight wasn't unwelcome.

"This holiday is so… _ridiculous._" Vladimir's nose wrinkled as he looked around them, red eyes narrowing on the various decorations, and Stefan's smirk only widened when Vladimir's lip curled after glimpsing an apartment complex with a very obnoxious _Ho, Ho, Ho! _scrawled across it in red and white lights.

"It has its uses," Stefan replied, rising to his feat, leaving the drained corpse of the woman on the ground, excess blood creeping out from the wounds to further stain the snow. He was sure the Santa Rosa police force would have fun with the Christmas gift, if no one else. "If it helps, I find picturing the Volturi scum decked out in the festive red colour a very pleasing thought. Brings a bit of the Christmas spirit to my soul." Stefan's words were accompanied by another small chuckle, and he saw his words were not in vain as the corners of Vladimir's mouth twisted into a small, cruel smile.

"What a pleasant thought," he mused. "Perhaps we should pay a visit to Volterra and write them a Christmas letter with their heads."

Stefan's only response was to reach forward and curl his fingers into Vladimir's palm before plastering a mocking smirk on his face, stepping back into the shadows the alleyway afforded. It was early Christmas morning, yes, but that didn't mean there wouldn't be others stumbling blindly about in the treacherous, dark hours. It was how Stefan had fed that day, after all. It made him sick, the thought that they had to hide from these pathetic, weak creatures; when he and Vladimir had ruled their coven, all the weak patches of meat had known of them, of what they were, and they had all _feared_—feared the type of fear that was so thick Stefan could literally taste it and drown himself in it.

But those days were long since passed now. They had no coven, no army; only each other, for one more year out of the thousand they had already lived.

"Come, friend. I bore easily of this place," Vladimir said then, and Stefan bowed a little at the waist, fond mockery etched into every moment, reflected in the familiar tilt of his head and the way he easily fell into step beside Vladimir, their footsteps evenly matched, as if they were one person instead of two.

It was another year alive, untouched by the Volturi's lapdog. It was another year in which to bring about their revenge. They would again paint the town red with the blood of the many, but until then, they survived.

It was enough.


End file.
